Nymphadora Tonks Goes To Hell
by The Impossible Slashtronaut
Summary: Featuring emo rock star Andrew Jackson, an impregnated dictator, a singing barber, Maximilian Robespierre as the Sassy Gay Friend, spontaneous musical numbers, the North Korean Quidditch team, the saga of Anti-Christ Bob, and general insanity. COMPLETE!
1. In Which Tonks Arrives In Hell

**Well, well, well…. it's been two whole months since last I posted. I think it's high time for a sequel to "Tonks' Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day," wouldn't you agree? Well, here you go, mon choux. Harry Potter is copyright Warner Bros. and Scholastic.**

Hell is one place you'd expect to find the world's greatest mass murderers: Vlad the Impaler, Jack the Ripper, the Zodiac Killer, Adolf Hitler, Josef Stalin, Saddam Hussein, Sweeney Todd, Bellatrix Lestrange and Lord Voldemort. Together, this elite group of killers was known as the Murderer's Club of Hell. At club meetings, the coven of murderers sat around a large fireproof table shaped like a pentagram. Satan himself sat in the middle of the table, on a giant flaming throne. Together, they would discuss such murderous topics as how to properly decapitate the prime minister, if blunt objects are better weapons than sharp ones, arson, the upcoming midterm elections, and whether Snooki would be mushing with The Situation or Pauly D on this week's episode of _Jersey Shore_.

Suddenly, in a burst of fire and brimstone, the new member of the Murderer's Club of Hell Apparated into the chamber.

"Sorry I'm late, my Prince of Darkness," said Nymphadora Tonks, bowing.

Tonks, hair the color and appearance of a blazing wildfire, had made it to this very special circle of hell by killing Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, her very own fiancee Remus Lupin, and herself in one day. she had a particularly wicked grin upon her face. Dusting herself off, she strode to the pentagram table, pulled up a brimstone chair, and sat crosslegged. She glanced around. Hitler and Stalin were grooming their mustaches. Voldemort and Bellatrix were making out. Jack the Ripper was reading porn. The Zodiac Killer was drawing pentagram after pentagram on a large slate with a piece of red chalk. Sweeney Todd was singing "Finishing The Hat" from "Sunday in the Park with George." Saddam Hussein was watching a clip of Achmed the Dead Terrorist on YouTube.

"Today must be Casual Friday," muttered Tonks. She pulled a large whiteboard and some Expo markers out of her satchel. "Who wants to play Hangman?" she asked. All the members of the Club perked up at the mention of Hangman.

"That sounds like a fine idea, my dear," hissed Satan, his tail lashing excitedly.

"Oy, a game of 'Angman sounds bloody brilliant to me," said Jack the Ripper, folding up his porno mag and tucking it behind his ear.

The Zodiac Killer smiled, and drew a hangman game on his slate.

"Let's have a prize for the winner," sneered Hitler in his thick German accent. Stalin nodded.

"I say the winner can invite one – and only one – person of their choice to join our circle of Hell," announced Saddam Hussein. "That way, if I win, I can bring Osama Bin Laden into our club!"

"That wouldn't be fair at all," said Bellatrix, "since some of us already have the person they want with them." She looked lovingly into Lord Voldemort's eyes, and kissed him hard. Voldemort shuddered with delight.

"I say the winner should be named King or Queen of Hell!" said a voice coming from the flaming sky above the club. Someone was joining the game. Someone worthy of this company…


	2. In Which Casual Friday Is Interrupted

**This fanfiction is intended for my personal amusement, as well as everyone else's. I hope no one is offended by my inclusion of the world-famous mass murderers. The inclusion of Andrew Jackson in the Murderers Club of Hell is not a political statement. I love Andrew Jackson, actually. If you are confused by the fact the seventh President of the United States is singing and being emo, go look up **_**Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson**_**. It's an emo-rock musical comedy about our seventh president that is closing on Broadway on January 2nd, 2011 after only 120 performances. I had the privelege to see this brilliantly bizarre piece of musical theatre twice: once off-Broadway, and once on Broadway. Consider this chapter a tribute to the show, the cast, and the creators. Enjoy, my populists. Also, Maxilmillian Robespierre is now the Sassy Gay Friend if he was a mass murderer. Enjoy.**

The source of the voice that came from the sky landed with a powdery thud next to Sweeney Todd; Sweeney picked up his razor and brandished it.

"Wait, what, what, WHAT are you doing with that razor, you stupid bitch?" said the fabulously powdery person who landed next to Sweeney.

"Oh, hello, Robespierre," groaned Satan. French Revolutionary Maximilen Robespierre dusted off his velvet suit jacket and adjusted his tall powdered wig.

"I say we shall play Hangman with the 'winner gets to be king of Hell' rule," said Robespierre pretentiously. He picked his sparkly orange scarf out from underneath his velvet jacket and sighed.

"Mein Gott in Himmel!" groaned Hitler. "Zis is getting ridiculous! I say kill everyone in zis room and we all live happily ever after, OK?" Stalin squirmed nervously in his chair.

"Will we ever get to play the fucking game?" bellowed Tonks, angstily slamming the whiteboard and markers down on the table. The markers melted on contact with the scalding hot brimstone table, and the whiteboard cracked in half.

"Fuck," swore Tonks, picking up the hot pieces of whiteboard and stuffing them back into her fireproof satchel.

"I guess we won't be playing, then," said Satan sadly. The Zodiac Killer whimpered in disappointment, using his grimy shirt sleeve to erase the Hangman game he drew. With a mild grunt of annoyance, Jack the Ripper pulled his magazine from behind his ear and unfolded it. Voldemort and Bellatrix resumed making out.

Suddenly, another voice echoed from above the club's heads. Someone was singing. Singing something angsty and rather theatrical.

"What the fuck?" murmured Tonks, craning her neck to try and hear the singing more clearly.

_"I wish that you were dead so that I could paint your face a diferent color. Who was it that ever said that my life really couldn't get any duller? My family's dead and I can't see a way to carry on – I'm not that guy! Life sucks, and my life sucks in particular! Yeah, life sucks, and my life sucks in particular!"_

The angsty, theatrical singing got louder and closer. Voldemort and Bellatrix stopped making out and got out of the way just in time to let the new club member land on their side of the table.

Andrew Jackson, seventh president of the United States, landed on top of the pentagram table with a crash. He picked himself up and sat himself down in a chair next to the Zodiac Killer, who was distracted by a fly that was buzzing about the chamber. Andrew was wearing very, very tight, obviously flame-retardant jeans. His white shirt was covered in blood. His eyeliner was thickly applied. His arm was heavily covered in scars from frequent angst-fueled cutting and bloodletting sessions. He had a gun holster on his belt, and his suspenders hung low. He looked warily around his tablemates and frowned.

"I'm Andrew fucking Jackson, and my life sucks in particular. Now, what the bloody fuck am I doing in this circle of Hell?"

Satan turned toward President Jackson suspiciously. His tail lashed in confusion.

"You dare ask _why_ you are in Hell?" queried Satan. "It is a privelege to be a citizen of the underworld, an honor to be in the presence of Satan himself, and a incredibly prestigious honor to be a member of the Murderer's Club… and you ask _why?_"

"Well, I always thought I was a national hero," replied Jackson, "and the only reason I can think of for how I ended up in this club is because I was apparently named responsible for the near-genocide of the entire Native American population."

At this remark, Hitler, Stalin, and Saddam Hussein stood up and saluted Jackson. Jackson stood up, pulled his gun from his holster and pointed it at Hitler.

"People always tell me I was the American Hitler," he roared. "People say I'm one of the worst presidents. Some even say I shouldn't be on the fucking twenty dollar bill! Well, I say fuck them, fuck you all, and populism for the win, motherfuckers!"

"Yeah, you go, AJ!" said Tonks, standing up on her chair in approval of Andrew's rage.

"Thanks, darling," said Andrew flirtatiously, "maybe later I can show you my stimulus package?" Tonks giggled like a Japanese schoolgirl and sat back down. Andrew sat back down as well, a bit more relaxed. "So, my Prince of Darkness, what shall we be discussing today in this so-called Murderer's Club?" he asked snarkily.

"Well, Mr. Jackson, today is casual Friday at the Murderer's Club, and Miss Tonks suggested we play Hangman–"

Satan was interrupted as Voldemort stood up and pointed a bony finger at Robespierre.

"That is, until this fabulous French chanticleer strutted in and demanded we play with 'winner is made king of Hell' rules," he snapped.

"Wasn't me, I swear," moaned Robespierre. "Oh, wait. Yes it was. I'm a stupid bitch!"

"WHEN ARE WE GONNA GET ANYTHING ACCOMPLISHED IN HERE?" roared Tonks. She pulled her wand out of her satchel and pointed it at Jack the Ripper. "We do something NOW, or Jackie here gets it," she snarled threateningly.

"All right, all right, settle down, Tonks," said Satan nervously, trying to diffuse the tension. "We need something to do here. Bellatrix, any ideas? We haven't heard much from you today."

Without any hesitation, Bellatrix pulled her wand out of her bra and pointed it at her cousin. "My Mudblood cousin here may have made it to this club because she murdered a bunch of people, but I made it here too. And I hate my cousin. She is mine to kill tonight, all mine." Bellatrix laughed wickedly.

"Wait, so, lemme get this straight," said President Jackson incredulously, "you want to kill her? We're all dead already… so, how the fuck does this work?"

"It just does, OK?" Bellatrix spat angrily on the table; the spit evaporated the instant it hit the surface. "Lett's get this duel over with!"

"Yes, LET'S!" shouted Tonks. The cousins leapt out of their chairs and onto the floor of the chamber, preparing to launch their attacks…

(("Oh, here go hell come," said Calvin Tran from _The Fashion Show_.))


	3. In Which Krum Arrives In Hell

**After an "incredibly productive" sleepover with IceSnowAndGlamour and Zchocolatebunniesrulezworld (and Ramen Noodle, who doesn't have a account yet… but she shall… once she is forced to do so by the plunger of my pet Dalek!), this rapidly-becoming-disturbingly-funny crackfic's getting a quick new chapter. Bob's Discount Furniture, Bob-O-Pedic, and all related references may not be familiar to people outside of the US (or New England, anyway) but they are basically a chain of furniture stores that air really annoying and obnoxious commercials on TV ALL THE FREAKING TIME. One particularly relevant Bob's commercial gave me the idea to write this chapter. You'll see what happens…. enjoy!**

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Wands pointed at each other's chests, Bellatrix and Tonks smiled wickedly at one another. Andrew Jackson gave Tonks a thumbs up and blew her an air kiss. Voldemort winked suggestively at Bellatrix. They were about to duel to the death (again….) At the table, Saddam Hussein, Sweeney Todd, and the Zodiac Killer were fast asleep. (Members of the Murderer's Club tend to have narcolepsy, you see.)

Suddenly, a pillar of fire appeared and postponed the bitchfight. Viktor Krum, Durmstrang student and seeker for the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team, landed in the chamber. He was looking rather bloody and beaten up.

"Well, zis is queer," muttered Krum, dusting the brimstone off of his shoulders while holding his now rather charred broom between his thighs. "What am I doing in the Murderer's Club?"

Tonks gasped. "Krum? You're dead too? How?"

"Quidditch accident. Lesson learned: never play against the North Korean team. They'll literally nuke the opposing Seeker in order to win." Krum gripped his broom tightly, having removed it from between his thighs.

"Well, well, Mr. Krum," sneered Satan, tail lashing. "Why are you here? My records show you have commited no murders in your surprisingly short life…"

"Apparently you now need to have bought a Bob-O-Pedic mattress while living in order to get into Heaven," said Krum with a shrug. "I haff no idea vat a Bob-O-Pedic is, but it sure sounds shoddy."

"Peter didn't tell me he made a deal with Anti-Christ Bob!" shouted Satan. Pillars of fire shot from his eyes in anger. "Anti-Christ Bob is being such a douche!"

"Anti-Christ Bob?" Tonks, Krum and Andrew Jackson asked curiously.

"Oh, God, don't get me started on Bob," said Robespierre, coquettishly fixing his wig. "Bob's a stupid bitch. Sells cheapo furniture in America. He took over the television advertising transmissions a while ago. He uses claymation and incredibly dumb jingles in his commercials, the stupid bitch. No wonder he's an Anti-Christ."

"There are others, of course," explained Stalin, pulling a chart from under his seat. He unfurled it and held it up. "Nostradamus predicted there would be four Anti-Christs before the Apocalypse. One of them is with us," Stalin motioned to a scowling Hitler, "and the other three were Napoleon, Abu Abbas, and Bob."

Voldemort stood up and pointed a bony finger at Stalin's chart.

"What? I thought I was on Nostradamus' list! Who's Abu Abbas, anyway?"

Stalin shrugged. "Ask Saddam." He whapped Saddam Hussein with his rding crop. Hussein woke up with a shout of "Allah be praised!" and looked around, very much confused.

"What do you want, Josef?" Saddam grumbled groggily.

"Lord Voldemort here wants to know who Abu Abbas is."

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**To be continued in Chapter Four, where we hear Saddam's explanation and discover more about the Anti-Christ exploits of Bob, the reasons why Krum ended up in the Murderer's Club and why everyone has narcolepsy (not to mention Vlad the Impaler's grand entrance!) **


	4. In Which Plans Are Made or Go Nowhere

**It's time once again for a quick, crack-filled chapter of everyone's new favorite descent into Crack Fic Paradise. (Everyone has narcolepsy in Hell, for some reason. No offense to any narcoleptics reading this fic.) **

**A special shout-out to Neutral-Chaotic is in order, for their wonderfully disturbing request for some Hitler/Stalin slash. Your wish is my command! Sorry in advance if this fic becomes a gorefest by Chapter Five.**

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Saddam cleared his throat thoroughly and began to explain. "He masterminded the hijacking of the Italian cruise ship _Achille Lauro_. He killed a wheelchair-bound Holocaust survivor aboard the ship and tossed the body overboard. The Italian government sentenced him to five life sentences in prison. Nostradamus referred to him as Mabus. We all know that Mabus and Abu Abbas are very similar words. That is why he is the third Anti-Christ."

"I'm on ze list, too!" shouted Hitler. "Show me some respect, why don't you?" In a fit of passionate rage, he grabbed Stalin and kissed him. Stalin liked it, and they soon rolled under the table and stayed there for quite some time. No one seemed to mind.

"Well, zis doesn't exactly explain why I'm in ze Murderer's Club," said Krum. "Anti-Christ Bob must haff a reason for me belonging he besides my never purchasing a Bob-O-Pedic."

"This looks like a job for POPULISM!" announced Andrew Jackson, pulling a cutting blade out of his pocket and pointing it to the blood-red sky.

"Yeah, AJ!" cheered Tonks. She smacked Andrew Jackson's tight ass. He giggled a manly giggle. Bellatrix had moved on from her potential fight to the death with her niece and had sat back down with Voldemort.

Without any warning, Vlad The Impaler strode into the chamber. He was enrobed in a cloak made of the muscle tissue of impaling victims, and his hair was slicked back with the blood of his victims. He chuckled in his deep Germanic voice.

"Vell, hello, everybody. Sorry I'm late."

"No problem, Vlad," replied Satan. "We've had loads of visitors to the Club today."

"I'd never miss Casual Friday for ze world!" he squealed, and pulled up a seat next to the Zodiac Killer. Zodiac and Sweeney Todd were reading Jack the Ripper's porno magazine. Jack the Ripper was sound asleep.

"Why does everyone in the Murderer's Club have narcolepsy?" asked Tonks, using her Metamorphmagus abilities to turn her hair into a spiky blue Mohawk. Satan shrugged, and whipped his tail back and forth.

"Perhaps it's because we never do anything!" shouted Sweeney Todd, waking suddenly from his sudden bout of narcolepsy. Vlad the Impaler patted Sweeney on the back. "You finally woke up! Good for you, Sweeney."

"WE ALL DESERVE TO DIE!" sang Sweeney, in his trademark Sondheim style. "EVEN YOU, MRS. LESTRANGE, EVEN I!"

Bellatrix was face to face with the blood-spattered razor of the Demon Barber. She laughed wickedly and pushed the weapon aside. "I'd make a pretty good Mrs. Lovett, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Todd?"

"You're absolutely right, my dear!"

"And who are we to deny it down here?" Sweeney and Bellatrix laughed.

"This is making no sense," muttered Andrew Jackson. "I need to take this into my capable, populism-drenched hands. See you motherfuckers later." With that, AJ stormed out of the Hell Gate and onto the Stairway to Earth. He would deal with Anti-Christ Bob on the Mainland…

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**Coming in chapter five: Anti-Christ Bob vs. Andrew Jackson, ascending from Hell like a reverse fallen angel onto the Mainland in a pillar of flames; Sweeney Todd goes on a rampage on the Mainland after sneaking through the open Hell Gate; a glimpse into Krum's disturbing past via Satan's Pensieve; and a special appearance by Bono, The Edge, Julie Taymor, and the entire badly mutilated cast of "Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark."**


	5. Zombie Andrew Jackson Vs Anti–Christ Bob

**My god… three chapters of this spiral staircase into the eighth layer of Crackfic Inferno in two days. I AM ON A ROLL WITH THIS SHIT! AWWW YEAAHHH! The reviews have been nothing short of wonderful, and I thank the readers who have gladly donated their sanity to my collection. Your collective sanities will be pickled in a brine made of soda water, saltpeter and the tears of a dying baby fawn, then stored in my sanity freezer for posterity. This is the chapter with the gory, disturbing, and overall epic battle between Anti-Christ Bob and Zombie Andrew Jackson. If you can catch the Zelda CD-I reference in this chapter, you win a free hug! Enjoy, mon choux!**

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Andrew Jackson emerged from a pillar of fire somewhere in the United States, in front of a large industrial building. A large, fading neon sign read "Bob's Discount Furniture World Headquarters And Secret Lair Of The Anti-Christ" in big, bold letters. Andrew Jackson, being undead, had the appearance of a zombie; he wouldn't look out of place in an episode of "The Walking Dead." As zombies go, he was still very sexypants. He barged through the doors of the shockingly empty building, carrying a revolver and his cutting blade.

"ANTI-CHRIST BOB, IT'S TIME TO DIE!" he shouted angrily. "I WISH THAT YOU WERE DEAD SO THAT I COULD PAINT YOUR FACE A DIFFERENT COLOR! I'M ANDREW FUCKING JACKSON, AND YOUR LIFE'S GONNA SUCK UNIVERSALLY!"

A door opened, and Anti-Christ Bob floated into the room using the Anti-Christ ability of levitation, seated cross-legged in a yoga position. Anti-Christ Bob was wearing his usual yellow T-shirt, but wearing an unusual-for-Bob pair of dark pinstripe pants and tight leather shoes. He carried a battle axe over his shoulder. Immediately, Andrew Jackson pointed his gun at the Anti-Christ floating in front of him.

"You dare bring light to my lair? You must die!" snarled Anti-Christ Bob, the fingers on his outstretched hand unexpectedly shooting lightning from the tips.

Swiftly, Andrew pulled the trigger on his revolver and shot a bullet into Anti-Christ Bob's hand. It blew through his palm and left a bleeding hole in its wake. Blood spurted out of the wound; still-spasming muscle tissue flew out of the hole in chunks. Anti-Christ Bob's face turned pale and his mouth gogged open in panic. He uttered a single, unearthly, eardrum-piercing scream, and began flying around the room, waving his bloody hand frantically. In his panic, Anti-Christ Bob had dropped his battle axe onto his leg, hacking his foot and most of his thigh off in the process. A bloody stump protruded from his pinstriped trousers. The bloody, hacked-off leg lay on the floor in a bubbling pool of hot blood. Andrew Jackson knew what had to be done. In one fluid motion, he flung his cutting blade at Anti-Christ Bob, piercing him right in the heart. Anti-Christ Bob's pupils grew tiny and faint, and his scream became a shrill, window-breaking shriek that could only be heard by teenagers, dogs, and fetuses. The blood gushing from the hole in his hand lessened. The new hole in the side of his chest exploded the room and Zombie Andrew Jackson with hot, sticky blood. Andrew liked the feeling of the blood spraying all over him. He was used to that feeling, in way, since he was a cutter. Soon, Anti-Christ Bob's blood loss had reached the point of no return. His shriek died, his eyes became blank, and he dropped to the floor like a swatted fly, sprawled out in a pool of his own blood.

Anti-Christ Bob was dead.

Smiling, Andrew Jackson blew the recoil dust off of the barrel of his revolver, holstered it in his pants holster, and stepped over to Anti-Christ Bob's body, removing his beloved cutting blade from the dead man's chest. He wiped it on the leg of his tight, tight jeans, and holstered it too.

"My work here is done," he said boldly, and stepped outside of the void-of-all-life building, down into his pillar of hellfire and back to the club chamber.

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**The next chapter, which could be written any day at any time, will feature such titillating plot points as: the grisly, sordid details of Viktor Krum's abusive childhood; a cameo by the cast and crew of "Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark," who had made a deal with Satan in order to put on the show in the first place; Tonks' battle with Bellatrix resumed; Sweeney Todd's continued descent into insanity; narcolepsy; and plenty more gore and slash and crack. Until next time…**


	6. In Which We Discover A Pensieve

**Boredom strikes and the sparks ignite so I can own the night like the Fourth of July… cause, baby, I'm a firework! Time to show them what I'm worth. Make 'em go AAAAAHHHH, AAAUUUGGGHHH, AWWWWW. I'm gonna leave 'em going AAAAAHHHH, AAAUUUGGGHHH, AWWWWW.**

**Sorry for the Katy Perry reference if you don't like her, it's just that the music video for this song is so inspiring and wonderful and stuff. And of course, Katy's boobs are used as projectile launchers, in this song's case for fireworks. In the spirit of all this madness, I present chapter six. Enjoy, mon choux.**

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Andrew Jackson cleaned up nicely as he strode back into the chamber. He didn't look quite like a zombie anymore once he returned to the netherworld, but he was still spattered profusely with the blood of Anti-Christ Bob.

"Where were you, President Jackson?" asked Satan as Jackson took his seat next to Tonks.

"Took care of Anti-Christ Bob for you," replied Jackson.

"So, now zat Anti-Christ Bob hass been taken care of, why am I still here?" wondered Krum. A short silence spread throughout the chamber. The sounds of Hitler and Stalin under the table were the only thing they could hear.

"Perhaps a look in my Pensieve might solve your problems."

Satan removed the large stone pentagram from atop the table to reveal a Pensieve built in to the table. Krum knew what to do. He whipped out his wand, and muttered an incantation under his breath. He pulled a long, silvery wisp of memory out of his temporal lobe, and dropped it into the Pensieve. The rest of the club gathered around the table (some just waking up from their narcolepsy) and placed their heads into the silvery water together. They all fell through.

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Sorry this chapter's so short, but I'm writing this fic while in rehearsals for my high school production of Hairspray. (I play a bum and a beatnik.) Next time, we shall venture into Krum's childhood; meet up with the soulless cast and crew of "Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark"; and continue our collective descent into insanity. Until next time!**


	7. In Which More Shit Goes Down

**Snow days seem to be the best harbinger of crack bunnies. Chapter seven is upon us, and I'm sure that it's gonna get even trippier. By the end of the fic (I KNOW RIGHT, THIS SONNAFABITCH WILL END! O_o) Andrew Jackson's character development may end up with a metamorphosis into the 16th president, Abraham Lincoln, as a result of the news that Ben Walker (sexypants emo rockstar Andrew Jackson in 'Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson' and the inspiration for chapter two and onwards of this descent into insanity) will play Abraham Lincoln in the film of "Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter," based on Seth Grahame-Smith's novel (which I have yet to read.) Enjoy this installment, and expect the unexpected. Always.

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The group huddled behind a tree and watched as the heavily muscled, seven-year-old Viktor Krum dragged a scraggly, underfed pitbull behind him on a tough leather leash through the streets of his little Bulgarian hometown. He was whistling gleefully as he dragged the poor dog along, not caring if he made the mongrel slam into trashcans or fallen tree trunks. Which he did.

"Dude, you did that to animals?" Jack the Ripper spat on Krum's shoe. "Thass' bloody disgustin', that is."

Sweeney Todd's eyes were wide and joyful. "Good job, mate." He patted Krum on the back.

Stalin and Hitler were not among the Pensieve travellers, for obvious reasons. Neither was Zodiac, who was probably still asleep at the table.

"All right, party's over," sighed Satan. He snapped his fingers, and the memory ended. The group was back in the chamber. They all sat down again, and Stalin and Hitler, half-naked from the waist up, clambered back from under the table and into their seats. They were smiling widely. Hitler's mustache had gone askew, as had Stalin's. They were awfully sweaty.

Suddenly, strains of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony started to play from somewhere, and a long silver pole descended from above. On the pole, doing a rather suggestive striptease routine, was Alex DeLarge. His bowler hat snug on his blue-eyed, maniacal face, he spun round and round until he landed, feet first, on the pentagram table.

"Wassup, me droogs?" said Alex, happily. He high-fived Vlad the Impaler, who didn't really understand who this miscreant was but was glad to see him anyway.

"Hello, Alex!" said Satan with a smile, welcoming Alex into the club. "At long last, you've made it down here!"

"Yeah. Me gulliver's havin' quite a painin', but otherwise I'm good." Alex smiled widely, and sat down next to Krum. He punched the Bulgarian's shoulder playfully. "Wass yer name, stranger?"

"Introductions shall be made later," announced Satan, settling everyone down. "I have some important news for Mr. Krum and President Jackson. I have received word from my compatriot Saint Peter up in the Heavens that you are in store for a visit by the Holy Evaluator himself, Anubis, to reweigh your hearts and see if you truly belong down here."

"My big break!" shouted Krum and Andrew Jackson, simultaneously standing up in their seats. They cast rival glares at each other from across the table.

"Why do you two want to go?" begged Tonks, pulling at the cuff of AJ's tight, tight jeans. "You're my only friends here!" Her hair turned mousy brown and formed into a shady, long-haired cut with long bangs. Her eyes glimmered with sad, fiery tears from behind them.

"I haff done nothing wrong," said Krum confidently. "The nuclear energy that the Korean Quidditch team used to kill me vas probably to blame."

"And I'm Andrew fucking Jackson, an American hero who needs to be remembered in the most patriotic way possible: a Broadway musical!" Andrew Jackson pulled a mic from his back pocket. "That's right, motherfuckers, Jackson's going to Broadway!" He started to sing into the microphone.

_"John Adams tried to be an American Idol, Thomas Jefferson tried to be a rock star, James Madison tried to make the presidency vital, and James Monroe was a douchebag!"_

Tonks clapped wildly when he finished singing the snippet.

Andrew turned to Tonks and pulled her close to him. "Someday, my dear, when the time is right, I swear, I'm gonna fill you with hot, sweet popula-jizz-m!" He kissed her passionately, the only person besides Rachel Donelson Robards or Martin van Buren who ever understood him. Tonks kicked her foot up behind her in the passion of it all. Voldemort and Bellatrix were making out too, but no one really wanted to watch Noseless and Crazy Bitch eat eachother's faces for the four-hundredth time.

The sky above them was darkening, trumpets were blaring, and the Hell Gate opened. Light streamed from the crack in the door. Someone was coming. From the Heavens or the Mainland, they weren't sure. But someone was coming nonetheless…

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Next time, the conclusion (?) to this epic saga of gore, craziness, and insanity. All will be revealed….? Will Andrew Jackson **_**really **_**turn into Abraham Lincoln? Will Krum go to Heaven after all the animal cruelty he did as a child? Will Hitler and Stalin have a happy announcement to make? Will this fic **_**really **_**end, for reals? **

**I don't know. **

**MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.**

**Until next time!**


	8. In Which Hitler Is NOT The Baby's Father

**This is it. The big one. The end of the line. The great pumpkin. The one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple people eater. The great garbanzo. The end of the world as we know it (and I feel fine.) The final countdown. The last battle. The one ring to rule them all. The only one he ever feared. The flying spaghetti monster. The millenium puzzle. The holy grail. The mall of America. The king of Kong. The wind in the willows. The end of time. The eleventh hour. The vampires of Venice. The Big Bang 2. The two gentlemen of Verona. The angry video game nerd. The world is not enough. The great Gatsby. The catcher in the rye. The secret garden. The crowning moment of awesome. The king's speech. The social network. The fighter. The kids are all right. The prodigal son. The million-dollar question. The toxic avenger. The vampire diaries. The secret life of the American teenager. The millionaire matchmaker. The fairly oddparents. The penguins of Madagascar. The whole enchilada. The pirates of penzance. The son of rage and love. The Jesus of suburbia. The bible of none of the above. The last of the American girls. The lonely island. The wild Thornberries. The power of love. The end. THE FINAL CHAPTER. YOU HEARD ME, FOLKS. THIS BAD BOY IS ENDING. LET US MOURN.**

…**OK… mourning over. On to the ceremonies. Enjoy this last bite of infernal madness, mon choux. I'd say it's worth it.

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**The Hell Gate swung open with a deafening crack that silenced all conversation. Standing in the blinding fire light, in a rather untidy clump, stood the maimed, injured, and overall soulless cast of "Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark." Andrew Jackson turned to Satan with a questioning glance. Satan sighed dramatically.

"They sold their souls to put on the show. The injuries kept piling up, and the murderously bad reviews killed them all." He snapped his fingers, and the cast burned into oblivion, gone forever. Satan laughed coldly.

"That's what you get for selling your soul to me," he said bitterly. "Time for a game I call 'Silent Movie.'" He snapped his fingers, and everything turned black and white as a long period of silence drifted through the chamber. Hitler and Stalin were having a shockingly disgusting (and silent) intercourse session. Stalin was peeing all over Hitler. Hitler donkey punched Stalin, and as a result, Stalin bled everywhere. Hitler started laughing maniacally (but made no noise, since it was silent) but was soon being spanked repeatedly by Stalin. Watching two evil mass murderers making the beast with two backs was quite like watching a train wreck; everyone in the chamber just stared and watched. No one asked for brain bleach. It was very silent in the chamber. So quiet, in fact, one could hear anything, even in their own thoughts. Beneath their feet, Kerberos and Echydna and Cronus and Cthulhu were having a sexy party with the Furies, the Gorgons, the Harpies, the Sirens, and the Green Power Ranger. Silently, hell thunder roared above them. Everyone was deadly silent throughout Hell. It was incredibly disconcerting to everyone in Hell, whether they liked it or not.

Eventually, Hitler and Stalin's lovemaking got so intense and NC-17 that Satan forced them out of the chamber. The couple got a room at the Hotel California. Eventually, after months and months of constant sexual intercourse, Hitler impregnated Stalin… or so they thought. Charon the boatman, who ran the Hotel California as a day job, also had a paternity tester license. It turned out that Hitler was not the father of their child. It was the Zodiac Killer's baby. (So that's why he was so silent, realized Stalin.) In anger, Hitler slapped Stalin and stormed out of the Hotel. He drowned himself in the river Styx in depression, losing all his memories and going straight into purgatory, where he would float among the lost souls forever.

Meanwhile, back in the main chamber, in our main plotline, the rest of the Club waited in anxious silence for the arrival of Anubis, the Weigher of the Souls and Lord of Mummification. "This silence will continue until Anubis arrives," said Satan, breaking his own rule. Only Satan can break his own rules, you see. Everyone else just waited….

**

* * *

Haha. Gotcha! This isn't the last chapter after all. Muhahahahaha! This is part one of the epic finale. Which could actually occur any time between now and December 21st, 2012, when Justin Beiber will finally hit puberty, only to be rudely interrupted by Kanye West, the Dalek invasion of Earth, and the zombie apocalypse. Until next time, mon choux~**

**AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! *maniacal laughter as thunder rolls above***


	9. In Which Nothing Happens At All

THIS IS THE FINAL CHAPTER. ENJOY.

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The sky above the club roiled with golden flames and unholy wails from invisible, tormented souls doomed to float above the heads of the damned for eternity. All was silent in the club; no one moved, no one dared to speak. Satan simply smiled his crooked, razor-sharp smile and lashed his tail in anticipation. Below the club's feet, eternally damned spirits of traitors, seducers, liars, cheaters, and politicians danced the satanic dance of the forbidden evils of mankind. There was nothing but silence and the wails of the tormented souls floating above.

The thoughts that swum through their heads were as varied as they were terrifying.

"_There's nothing left in this old town – pick up your life and move it around. And what is here for me in Tennessee? Pick up your rifle and make a stand! You always said I should be like that guy, but guess what? I'm telling you – I'm not that guy! Who am I? I'm Andrew fucking Jackson, and my life sucks in particular!" _Inside, AJ smiled with delight.

"_Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care? Will somebody wake me up from this nightmare?"_ Tonks cried inside.

_"Just gonna stand there and watch me burn – it's alright because I love the way it hurts. Just gonna stand there and watch me cry – well, it's alright because I love the way you lie. I love the way you lie!"_ Voldemort lustily sighed inside.

_"I may be bad but I'm perfectly good at it – sex in the air? I don't care; I love the smell of it. Sticks and stones may break my bones but chains and whips excite me!" _Inwardly, Bellatrix moaned with pleasure.

_"Wake me up inside! Wake me up inside! Call my name and save me from the storm!" _wailed Krum inwardly.

"Wow, what a bunch of fucking emos," muttered Satan. He could hear all.

Suddenly, a massive flaming supernova of sorts appeared on the horizon. It grew larger and larger as it slowly hovered toward the crowd.

Majestic and shining, like the Sun over the peaks of the Himalayas; beautiful yet dangerous, like a collapsing dwarf star.

Angel song seemed to emanate from its center – singing something vaguely sounding like "God Save The Queen" mashed up with "Zero" by the Smashing Pumpkins and remixed into a dubstep soundscape of majesty, epicness, rock, and utter confusion.

Inside the supernova one could make out a figure – no, a group of figures.

The supernova suddenly sped up and hovered above the pentagram table, emanating heat and frost and mystical energy and stardust and something smelling of incense and marijuana smoke. Once it was above the table, one could much more clearly see who was inside the nova.

Stephen Sondheim, J.K. Rowling, and Winston Churchill (who was curiously enough, riding a large winged lion) were inside the golden shimmering sphere of holy majesty, wearing matching silver robes and carrying what looked like diamond-speckled scepters of gold – no, platinum – no, gold. (One couldn't tell whether the scepters were gold or platinum; the gold light surrounding them made it hard to tell – oh, nevermind the bollocks, here's the Sex Pistols.)

The Holy Ones simply hovered above them.

Thunder and lightning crackled and exploded around everyone in the chamber.

The golden roiling flames above seemed to be sucked inside the godly supernova – everyone there, it seems, also appeared to be absorbed into the massive holy glowing orb of might and virtue and high-octane nightmare fuel and epic godliness.

Even Cthulhu was sucked in, although how he was transferred from his crevice in the abyss under the ocean to the burning plains of Hell, we shall never truly know...

In a flash, everything and everyone was gone. No one was spared. God works in mysterious ways sometimes. Life sucks sometimes; perhaps Andrew Jackson _was_ right about that.

_**THE END.**_

Epilogue: Where Are They Now?

**Nymphadora Tonks **returned to the canon universe of the Harry Potter franchise, where she was reunited with her werewolf lover, Remus Lupin. She was properly killed off in the Spring of 1997.  
**Andrew Jackson **went on to become a great success off-Broadway at the Public Theatre, transferring to Broadway in 2010 and playing 120 epic performances before being unfairly shut down by The Man. (Or was it those wealthy New England Congress fucks who tax us and play polo all day instead of defending the frontier?) He is now going by the name of Abraham Lincoln and is a professional vampire hunter. Yeah, he's just that badass.  
**Satan** is still the Lord of Evil. And no, he was never elected President of the United States.  
**Viktor Krum **was returned to Bulgaria, purged of his radiation poisoning and sins. He still plays Quidditch for the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team.  
**Bellatrix Lestrange** was killed by an angry ginger housewife who called her a bitch.  
**Voldemort **was killed by the Boy Who Lived when his wand backfired.  
**Sweeney Todd **also pursued a career on Broadway, won Tonys up the wazoo, and eventually got a movie deal with Tim Burton.  
**Vlad Dracul** was not really a vampire, but his life story inspired Bram Stoker to write the only great vampire novel.  
No one knows what happened to the **Zodiac Killer**.  
**Jack the Ripper** was probably an urban legend.  
**Alex DeLarge** ended up back with his droogs. To learn more, watch the film "A Clockwork Orange." Also, read the book.  
**Bob** was never truly an Antichrist, but many believe he is.  
**Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark** was not nominated for any Tonys.  
**Maximillian Robespierre** was a French Revolutionary. Known as "Maximilien The Incorruptible" by his friends, he inwardly preferred "Seximillian Robespierre" as his nickname. He was guillotined by angry French rebels.  
**Josef Stalin** was a bad man. But not as bad as Hitler.  
**Adolf Hitler** was the second Antichrist.  
**Abu Abbas**, as it turns out, was never an Antichrist.  
**Saddam Hussein **was hiding in a hole when the US Army found him. He later died.


End file.
